Le Whore Next Door

A written tribute for those who bed her.

Thirty.

            “Gentle,” was a word that previously never escaped my lips during foreplay until I met my match via the dangerous combination of two coworkers and a bottle of wine. 

            Bruises decorate my thigh as a consequence of my peer ignoring such requests and exciting my pussy without even touching it.

            Alcohol taints the memory but I long for it to return, having felt relief so great to implant a sense of loyalty to a man I had no intent of dating.

            Making out, rolling around, an unfamiliar foot fetish, sucked toes, massaged backs, slapped faces, slapped asses, mutual oral pleasure, bruised necks, bruised thighs, a pent up sexual tension to be continued.

Twenty-nine.

            It is a first date at a bar so I assume it won’t go so well because first dates at bars are never a good idea, particularly not on Monday evenings, and particularly not when both members need to work the next morning but are getting drunk, so we were there and he wasn’t as cute as he looked online and he kept talking about how his step-father ruined his life and I figure everyone gets more emotional when they’re drinking but if you’re a thirty year old single man still hung up on issues from childhood then you’re certainly bad news, but it was a Monday night and I work in fast food and go to community college when I’m way too good for this so it’s not as though I have anything better to do and he’s buying me drinks which I greatly appreciate, as I love getting drunk more than I love most other aspects of existence and while I know how that sounds problematic and I know what people think of “girls like me,” I’m really just being honest by admitting my love for drunken foolery so I stayed at the bar with this guy who was too old to have his daddy issues and mommy issues and whatever it was so I kept knocking back drinks so it would be fun for me at least but of course I can’t drive home and he lives down the road and I’ve never met a hobbyist before, and I didn’t even know people had strange 3-D dinosaur puzzle hobbies but apparently there’s at least one guy who is into it and I don’t want to watch television because I have to work the next day and it must be 1 in the morning or 2 or something so I text my mother saying I won’t be home and by now I assume she knows I’m out having sex but sex isn’t something we talk about, so she’ll politely pretend I’m making good choices and I go to bed feeling sick and we don’t even have sex but then he wakes me up around 5 in the morning and I am so exhausted and hung over and he’s making out with me and stroking my thighs and even though I’m too hung over to enjoy it to its full extent I always welcome this kind of attention and even though I’m not drunk anymore he still appears cuter than he was when I met him because anyone who’s willing to pleasure me will always look more attractive than they actually are and his genitalia is long and skinny which is something that even this far in my adventures I haven’t encountered until now so the intercourse itself isn’t great but the sexual touching besides the intercourse is excellent so we continue on until completion and afterwards I immediately ask for him to bring me to my car because even though the sex was fun he’s still a weird guy I don’t care to spend time with but at least the awful first date had some benefit because when you’re fucking you’re at least getting something out of it when every other aspects sucks.

Twenty-eight.

            A first date, a house date.  I try to convince myself he’s not just in it to fuck, that he genuinely thought a movie-at-home night would be cute, that he has a nice place, that this is a choice I am comfortable making.

            I park on the street next to a shack that apparently passes for a house.

            Two giant Rottweilers greet me at the gate.  Unlike the eager pups, I freeze. 

            Do I have the right address?  Does he know I’m here?  Should I hop the fence and approach the door?  Does standing on his property make it too late to cancel?

            “Yeah…” he sounds uncertain as we meet.  “I found this place on Craigslist and the guy made it sound nicer.  I just moved back from Iceland.”

            As expected of any suspicious house date, this man does not have a living room.  If I want to sit, the only option is his bed in an otherwise empty room. 

            He’s thirteen years older.  He’s highly skilled in martial arts.  No one knows I’m here.   

            But where’s the fun in playing it safe?

            Dry small talk leaves me desiring something wet, a social lubricant, but he’s eight years sober; he’s a safer player than I.

            Making out.  His body type is unfamiliar.  Short.  Built.  Muscular.  Arms too big for both my hands to fit around.  Our hands mutually exploring one another’s unfamiliar bodies. 

            Clothes form a pile on the floor as two adults’ decisions merge into one.  Rhythmic, sweaty sex by a man who poses a naturally dominant disposition. 

            More time elapses than for which I have patience.  His sweat turns cold, dripping onto my forehead beneath him.  The man grunts, resembling his Rottweilers outside just before he spits on my cunt, letting his warm drool mix with his cold sweat, all tainting my soft, feminine skin. 

            Going with it.  Trying to stay involved.  Dreaming of going home.

            I withhold my sigh of nervous relief when he finishes.

            “Lovely, are you staying over tonight?”

            I will feign sexual pleasure when needed, but I draw the line at feigning social pleasure.

Twenty-seven.

            A kiss goodnight is never enough.  Lips embracing, gentle foreplay.  Time steps aside to let us play.

            What was once gentle quickly becomes rough.  A night alone, an accelerated romance.  I seek no reason to reject your advance.

            Serene, sensual smirk decorated with scruff.  Tickling my thigh, tonguing my clit.  I anticipate your cock penetrating my slit.

            Nonchalant, but you called my bluff.  Forcing me to scream in pleasure, pleading your name.  Sex is the mere spark to our inevitable flame.

Intermission.

If I had a nickel
from every man who has told me
…that he always uses protection
…that I was the exception
…that he doesn’t usually do this
…that he just couldn’t help himself
Then perhaps I could afford
a small box of breath mints
to mask the stubborn taste of semen
permanently imprinted on my tongue.

Twenty-six.

             The evening begins with seemingly innocent cuddles but quickly escalates to a finger in the mouth as a prelude to sex.

            “You’re already getting wet for me, I like that,” he says. Dirty words spill out of his mouth.

I want to taste your pussy | You like that hard cock? | Baby, come for me one more time | Your pussy is so tight and juicy | You like my balls in your mouth? Make it nasty like that | You’re such a good girl | Oh so you like it deep in your throat like that? | Baby, yes, that’s so good | When you look at me with my dick in your mouth…that’s so hot | You want me to cum in your mouth? Want me to cum on your tits too?

            Yes to the former, no to the latter. Swallowing him down and returning to cuddles, a shared intimacy pleasantly stumbled upon.

Twenty-five.

I wanted you. 

You said you had a girlfriend and I said I didn’t mind.  

You came in my mouth and slept in her bed. 

I get off to your imminent regret.

Twenty-four.

            “Come hold me,” message from a man I haven’t met.  It may the witching hour, but a New Year’s resolution to say yes more than I say no makes the decision for me. Spontaneity lures me in.

            Falling into his bed, mutual comfort found in a close embrace with a stranger. A kiss, a nibble, a touch, the night moves on.

            Clothes scattered on the floor, his mouth on my breast, his finger stroking my vagina.  He locks eyes with me as I moan.  I could cum, but I’d rather hold off and be penetrated.

            I nudge him onto his back, removing his boxers.  The thickness surprises me.  Nervous I won’t be able to fit him into my tiny mouth.

            Still, I attempt.  It’s a tight fit, but I’m having fun.  He’s thick and soft, pleasant against my tongue.

            “God that feels good,” the verbal gratitude begins.  “Jesus! Did you want to have sex?  You’re going to have to stop or I’m going to come. This is so good. Shit.”

            I spread my legs on either side of him, grabbing hold of his smooth dick and placing him inside me. 

            He announces he’s going to come.  Only a few moments passed since I even arrived at his apartment; the brevity makes us chuckle.

            “I’m sorry,” he laughs at his own sexual blunder.  “I don’t think I’ve come that quickly since I was twelve.  I’ll make it up to you in the morning.”

            I’m most comfortable sleeping in the beds of strangers.

Twenty-three.

            A first date, a first drink.  Making out in a parked car by a dirty river for dirty adults.

            An officer, a perceived danger, a relocation to a basement.

            “What can I do for you?” he asks with the taste of her pussy already on his breath.

            Whiskey dick and a woman determined to fix it.

            “What can I do for you?” silly boy asks again, when she’s already gotten off a few times.  She takes what she wants so he doesn’t even need to ask.

            Taking what she wants now, she straddles him on the couch, demanding his dick fill her up and requesting he cum in her pussy. Like a gentleman, he complies.

Twenty-two.

            A knowing glance exchanged at the gym. A quick “hello.” A cool, perhaps cold, demeanor. A cautious look to see if anyone is watching.

            I remember a belated birthday drink, or five. I remember confessing mutual attraction. I remember your hand on my thigh, my lips on your neck.

            I rode your dick, I cried out your name, I swallowed your cum, but when did I undress? Faint marks on my neck suggest there is more to the story. Your neck appears unscathed, but I’m trying not to stare. Discretion.

            Don’t worry, no one knows what we did. If it helps, I don’t even know what we did. But I intend to do it again.